


Plums

by TrusttheJotun



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Minor Character Death, Reader-Insert, pc af
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 05:39:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15790059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrusttheJotun/pseuds/TrusttheJotun
Summary: You've been fascinated with James Buchanan Barnes since you first saw his likeness in the Smithsonian. What a noble friend and goodness, what a visage. What you wouldn't give to stroke the uniform on display and remember him for a moment. You were shocked when he appeared in the news, large as life and twice as natural. There has to be some way to get his attention, maybe give him a nice warm place to rest after all of his time in the cold.





	Plums

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oddbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddbird/gifts).



> I've been wanting to write this x-reader fic for awhile. Just to be clear, the reader is based on me as close as possible, since this is my most realistic fantasy about the beautiful, beautiful mess of a man that is James Buchanan Barnes. This is, from the bottom of my heart, a satirical piece. "Thanks" to oddbird for encouraging me to write this.

_Plums._

He had only been trying to buy plums. You had watched the footage more times than you could count after it aired. A gas station camera had caught the little transaction, bless. You watched him give one fruit a gentle squeeze to see just how ripe it was for the taking, with his inhuman hand, nonetheless. Maybe he got better sensation on that one. Maybe he was just left handed originally, and that felt right. But one thing was for sure—he was still the sweet, noble man you had…

… 

Well, okay, you romanticized him and used the dog tag maker to get one with his name and home town on it. You stayed in that exhibit while the rest of the tour group moved on. Even as he was on television now and everyone was talking about how much of a monster he has become, you couldn’t quite see it that way. He seemed lost. He seemed like he needed a place to perch and look out upon the world. The more that aired about his history of crime and murder, the more you wanted to give him a hug. God knows he could use one. One could be sure that he hadn’t had an affectionate touch since he vanished. 

You went to a produce stand in New York a day after the footage came out. You bought a plum for every year James Buchanan Barnes had been missing. The skins of them were sour, so you only ate a couple. You wanted to like them as much as Bucky, who risked so much to come buy from the stand, but it just was not to be, you thought. You were careful not to read too much into that, because, you know, people who like each other don’t need to like all of the same things, just maybe most of the same things and have some sort of connection. When you looked at him, he just seemed such kindred, wandering soul. Maybe you could flee to Madrid…

On an idle Tuesday night, a story aired with footage of Bucky at the Smithsonian, masquerading as a common man with his little black baseball cap. The stand, the Smithsonian with all of the army gear… Maybe, just maybe, he was revisiting old places he knew. You had studied his old haunts pretty diligently, along with his thighs.

You were _pretty_ sure that you recognized the wood paneling in one of the photos at the Smithsonian where Bucky was leaned in with his pal, Steve. It was really cute, and a little Brokeback mountain, but hey, the bonds between warriors could be so tight those days. But you digress (a lot,) though you went there nonetheless with ten little folded pieces of paper, each with a phone number. You put little magnets on them to draw his attention and wedged them near the spot he was sitting in the photo. With any luck, they would get his attention or trip some sensor on his new arm. 

You lived with your phone ringer at half volume next to you, at work, at night, in the bathroom. Who’s to judge?

_Call me, call me, call me._

**Author's Note:**

> oddbird, I blame you
> 
> p.s. I ate a plum while writing this just to really get into the spirit


End file.
